


The Holiday

by DaScribbla



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Roman Holiday AU, Shakespeare400, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6629167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaScribbla/pseuds/DaScribbla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fed up with the constant pressures from his life as a prince, Hal slips away one night and runs headlong into Ned Poins, a journalist with big ambitions.</p><p>The Roman Holiday AU that nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Shakespeare400.

The desk has taken a few beatings over the years. The wood is covered in scratches and he can’t actually use one of the drawers because the bottom of it has collapsed. Papers slide from the haphazard stack on the side onto the growing one on the floor. A cold, half-drunk cup of coffee is beside his computer. 

He’s young, but he’s seen a lot of life. He’s sustained a few knocks himself. Right now, his hands shake as he types into his already huge Word document. The old nicotine craving is back in full force, but he tossed his last pack out a week ago. 

He’ll be damned if he knows why he published the book in the first place. True, his editor always said he was wasted on cheap articles for Page C. And how much more like the starving holder of an English degree could he have been? You get your heart broken, so you move from foreign country to foreign country and write a novel on the way. One part France, one part Italy. Maybe he’ll hit Spain and Germany sometime and write another one. Eventually.

But that had been years ago. He’s adjusted pretty well -- to the move, to the occasional letter or email from readers. He does pretty well these days, actually. If he’d known then that he’d feel this much better, he’d have published the manuscript long ago. But everything had felt a little too close then. He’d needed that time to reflect. Rebuilt what needed to be rebuilt.

He types a few more words half-heartedly and then saves and closes the laptop. Tonight is not a night for writing. He’s finished the article he needs for the online journal he works with now. He can take the night off. 

On impulse, he reaches into his bottom drawer, digs through the debris, and pulls out an envelope. It’s light and too large for what it contains. It’s unsealed and so the photograph slides out easily.

A young man stands before a tablet-covered wall, lost in thought. The sun is setting behind him and it lights his strawberry blonde hair with a gentle glow. The caption on the back reads simply -- _Rome 2013._

Being an author means you’re a slave to certain tropes. He sighs and stands, walking to the open window. It is late autumn and the scent of the sea is especially strong tonight. The sea was part of the reason he moved to Marseilles in the first place. In the distance, he hears the meow of a cat and, a little closer, laughter.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the ripple of foul, warm water stretched beneath him and hears a shriek, half in fear and half in delight. Hears water sloshing around a dock and remembers hands sliding into his own. 

_“Can we dance_?”

Oh, what the hell. He’ll break his own rule tonight and look back.

 

This desk is old -- at least several centuries -- but it gives little sign of its age. There is barely a mark on its finish and it doesn’t even creak when he steps near it. 

He is young too, but he has the air of someone who is aware of his own youth and knows he should enjoy it. A few minutes ago, he was in the shower, and now he laces his dressing gown and sits at his desk. He reaches for his computer and opens a new Word document. Stares at the screen and sighs. Outside his door, he can hear the faint sound of his security guard coughing. He closes Word and reaches, not for the stationary laid out nearby, but for a notebook and its lined pages. Carefully, he tears one out and picks up a fountain pen. His hand shakes a little, as it always has since he returned from the war eight months ago. Uncertainly, he touches pen to paper and watches ink blossom across it. 

_Dear Sir,_ he writes. And stops. His mind flashes briefly with images -- a stucco ceiling; a cobbled road flying beneath him; the taste of wine on his tongue as he watches the cars pass by -- and he closes his eyes. Rubs his temples slowly. 

_Dear Sir,_

_I recently finished reading your travel memoirs and was moved far more than I’d anticipated. More than I could ever publicly admit. Your writing made me think back on past days, which had, until now, seemed lost._

_I sometimes wonder if authors give any thought to their audiences and the effect that their work has on them. When you read this, please spare a moment to think of this particular reader and everything you have done for him._

_My thanks,_

He hesitates again, sucking absently on the end of his pen. And then he begins to write again. 

_An old friend._

Standing, he goes to the huge windows of his bedchamber and twitches aside one of the heavy velvet curtains. Several rooms away, he hears the shower start again. 

It is night and the his country’s nocturnal side is coming to life. The windowpane is cool as he leans his forehead against it and closes his eyes. 

_The ceiling and the road, the wine and the cars._

When he licks his lips, he can almost taste gelato.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal gets a wonderful, awful idea.

Rome allegedly was home to incredible architecture, but Hal had barely seen a column of it. There _had_ been the drive into the actual city, of course, but then he’d been expected to keep his head facing forward. Princes didn’t gawk at giant arches, apparently. Nor did they wake at any hour earlier than ten, but no later than eleven. Or have free time.

They certainly didn’t scratch the itch currently crawling its way beneath their collar, but Hal did his best to angle his neck and relieve some of the agony on the collar itself. Hell, it was starched enough. But that just made it worse. With a sidelong glance at Blunt, he shook hands with the latest couple, Russian this time. Then he reached up and quickly brushed at his neck. On his other side, he saw Worcester’s lips form a thin line. Scratching an itch or in any way touching one’s face betrayed self-awareness. Another thing forbidden to princes.

Hal straightened his neck and raised his chin. Posture was barely a problem in this uniform. The epaulets alone provided excellent weight on the shoulders. Hal wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to lift his arms when he danced, however.

Rome was the final step on this infernal goodwill tour and by then, he’d figured out a few tricks to combat the monotony. Reciting poetry in his head -- that had been a good one, at least until he’d nearly declaimed Rossetti for the French public. Guessing people’s ages was another one. During balls like this one, he spent the introductions scouting for the most attractive potential partner. So sue him, he was only human.

Not that he was in luck tonight. Everyone there seemed to be at least twice his age, and while that wouldn’t always bother him, there didn’t even seem to be a remotely appealing duchess or viscount in the entire lot. It was as if Worcester had caught on and instructed every country involved to send over their plainest nobility. For Hal, who was twenty-one and still pure as the winter snow (he wasn’t going to count that one furtive kiss with Lord Percy’s son), this was intolerable. He mentally pinched himself.

_Disney prince, think Disney prince…_ he reminded himself.

The chandelier lights were scorching, particularly considering that he was in black. Thank God capes had gone out of fashion centuries ago. He’d be dying otherwise.

A gentle prod in the back from Blunt made him pay attention to the two men behind him as the orchestra at the far end of the ballroom struck up a slow waltz.

“The Spanish countess,” Blunt murmured and Hal stepped down to take the waiting woman’s hand. That was another thing about these affairs -- same-sex dancing didn’t seem to have caught on at diplomatic balls yet. Which was a shame. The tall Taiwanese minister towards the back of the crowd hadn’t been too bad, comparatively.

Polite, meaningless conversation. Hal went through the motions, feet flying with practiced ease across the gleaming tiles. He felt remarkably like a dancer in a music box, or maybe a performing monkey. Yeah. Performing monkey was definitely more like it.

… and on to another partner, this one a skinny duchess who danced with a bizarre hopping gait. It took all of Hal’s reflexes and skill to avoid getting his feet trampled.

There was a magnificent refreshment table to the side, but Hal was only able to snag a few bites of something aristocratically slender on a stick before yet another woman whisked him off to dance. But harder to manage than hunger was the urge to stifle his yawns. When the clock struck ten-thirty, it took all of Hal’s willpower to not collapse on the spot. And then, approximately three million interminable goodbyes later, Hal was finally shown to his room in the British Embassy.

He’d have been happy to crash onto the king-sized bed (hah, that was funny) and just sleep in his dress uniform, but a prince didn’t do that either. As it was, he let himself rest his eyes as a few embassy staff members bustled around the bedroom and helped him with his jacket. Eventually, he waved them out so he could change properly.

The distant sound of music brought him to the window of his apartments. One of the domestics had opened them, letting in a warm breeze that ruffled his hair as he looked out. They were near the Tiber and, despite the stench that hung everywhere, Hal wished he were out there instead of being shut up in the Embassy like Britain’s best-kept secret. 

There was some kind of party going on at one of the docks. 

All the time, he felt as if he were existing on the sidelines, like all the fun began when he left the room. The entire world had been invited to a celebration that he was somehow barred from taking part in. He wondered what it would be like to be anonymous. And to stay in bed as long as you wanted.

He was startled by a knock and then the door opening.

“Henry, come away from the window,” Worcester said, crossing to him and drawing the vertical blinds. 

“I wish you would ask permission before you barge in,” Hal muttered, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t know that bothered you,” Worcester said, making no promise not to do so again, Hal noticed. He sighed deeply and leaned back against the pillows.

“I wish you’d let me sleep in a t-shirt,” he muttered. “Or a t-shirt and sweatpants. Or not even the sweatpants, maybe.”

“Henry, your pajamas are fine,” Worcester said in a long-suffering tone.

“But what’s _wrong_ with them?” Hal asked the world in general. “Like, _everyone_ sleeps in them. Why can’t I?”

“Let’s go over tomorrow’s schedule,” the older man said in reply. 

“We can do that tomorrow morning. Can’t I sleep?” Hal asked. His eyelids felt almost oppressively heavy.

“We won’t have time tomorrow morning,” Worcester replied smoothly. Hal rolled his eyes but settled back into the pillows in resignation as the older man pulled out the notebook -- a small Moleskine that had become his worst enemy. “Seven o’clock, breakfast. Eight-thirty, you have a short press conference. Then we go to the Colosseum for a short ceremony where you will be presented with an olive branch -- Hal, are you listening to me?” 

“What? Yes.” Hal forced his eyes open guiltily and clenched his fist, letting his nails dig into his palm to afford himself some brief lucidity.

“Then back here for a brief rest… no,” Worcester said, brow furrowing, as Hal looked up in hope. “No, that’s not right. You have the orphanage visit instead.”

“Should have known.”

“And there you will give the same speech as last month.”

“Trade relations,” Hal said, stifling a yawn.

“Yes. And after that, we have --”

“ -- wait, trade relations for the orphans?”

Worcester frowned.

“Oh no. Must be the other one.” 

“Ah.” This time Hal couldn’t hold back the yawn. “Manners of our forefathers.”

“Yes. You’ll be lunching with some of the city officials, so we’ll come back here to change.” Worcester was checking off boxes with a pencil as he spoke. “You will wear the cream suit with the --”

“ -- pale blue tie,” Hal finished.

“ Now be sure you express your anticipation to meet the major-general. He’s come back to Rome specifically to meet you this evening. Oh, and Sir Walter and I will be here at the embassy taking care of a few affairs so you’ll have to get to and from the luncheon on your own. The chauffeur knows the route, so you’ll be fine. All you need to do is take the same car.”

“ _Obrigado,_ ” Hal muttered sarcastically. Worcester took no notice.

“Tonight you will have dinner with the president and his wife and the major-general. Full dress like tonight.” Hal buried his head in his hands. Dinners were the worst. At least at balls you had the dancing to keep yourself occupied. At dinners, you had to keep up a steady flow of conversation without actually discussing anything of remote interest. He’d already done three. He didn’t know how he’d survive another one. “That will last until ten-thirty, after which we will drive here and retire for the night.” 

“ _Merci_ beau- _coup,”_ Hal said. He rubbed at his eyes.

“Oh, and I might as well tell you now -- we will be departing particularly early the morning after, so we will be making stops in Switzerland, the Czech Republic, and a few other places. You will be making addresses in all of them, so be sure you save your voice.” Hal felt himself begin to tear up. “And then we’ll be home. You see?” Worcester closed the notebook. “Not much longer now. But please remember that just because we’re near the end does not mean we can let things slide.”

Maybe it was that snide reminder at the tail of the speech. Maybe it was simply because he was tired and had been ready to go home three weeks ago. But suddenly Hal felt the last tethers of good behavior snap. 

“Shut up! _”_ he blurted out. Worcester looked stunned.

“Excuse me?”

“ _Shut up!”_ Hal’s throat was beginning to close up with the lump growing in his throat, the way it always did when he yelled. “I don’t care what’s happening tomorrow. I just want to _sleep._ You haven’t let me sleep in weeks!” The tears had turned into full-on sobs. And the humiliation of letting Worcester see him cry was just making it all worse. 

“Henry --”

“Shut up!”

“Your _Highness_ \--”

“Leave me alone!”

“Control yourself!” Worcester snapped. 

“I don’t _want_ to!”

“That’s it. I’m calling a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor, I need to sleep!” Hal cried, but Worcester had already left.

By the time Worcester returned, some faceless doctor who was probably on the embassy payroll in tow, Hal was still sobbing, curled in the fetal position. He was dimly aware of the conversation being held three feet away.

“ _Listen, you don’t think you could_ possibly _be overstraining him, do you?”_

_“Nonsense, he needs to build up an endurance for this kind of thing. That’s been the point of this entire tour.”_

_“I won’t argue with the wishes of His Majesty, but he’s young. He does need time to_ _breathe, you know._ ”

_“I didn’t call you here so you could criticize me or the king. Just give him something to calm him down.”_

The doctor sighed and Hal heard him sit down beside the bed. 

“Your Highness,” he said. Hal made a noise halfway between groaning and a sob. The doctor seemed to accept it as a sign he’d heard him. “Are you depressed?”

Hal shrugged, wiping at his eyes. 

“Are you tired?”

He nodded.

“Alright. Hold out your arm.”

Numbly, Hal obeyed as the doctor busied himself with his bag. 

“This is something to help you sleep.” 

Hal was somewhat gratified to see Worcester look away surreptitiously when the needle went in. 

“There you are. Good night, Your Highness.” And just like that, the doctor packed his bag and left. 

“Thank you.” He felt mellower now that his crying fit had mostly ended. “I… I won’t make this a habit, I promise,” he said, climbing under the covers. “The rest of the tour is going to go perfectly. I’ll… I’ll improve trade relations and… tell the major-general how charmed I am to meet him…” 

“Pleased to hear it, Your Highness. Good night.”

Worcester turned out the light, and closed the door behind him. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the walls of his room, but Hal could imagine the man’s deep sigh of relief. 

He stared up at the ceiling, taking in the elaborate carvings around the room. It all reminded him of a criminally elaborate cake. 

Could you make gilt edible?

The music from outside was still playing, a soft jazz band working quietly in the distance and, in Hal’s befuddled mind, something finally began to make sense. 

He could run away. 

Just for a little while. Go hear some music. Come back. Yeah. 

The next thing he knew, he’d thrown on the most normal-looking clothes he possessed and was looking out the window down at the balcony below. It was a little far, but he could make it. 

And then some well-timed running, and he’d be free. 

It was practically fool-proof.

Go hear some music. Come back.

What could happen?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack would say it was his own damn fault for pitying the strays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo sorry for the delay between chapters! But here we are again!

Ned didn’t take the cab because he knew he couldn’t afford it. It was his own fault for playing poker so late in the evening, especially after another rough day at the office. Jack had cleared him out embarrassingly easily and even managed to snag his last drink. Ned’s only consolation was that _Jack_ would be paying the tab for once, not him. 

Actually, he was almost grateful for this one chance to walk through the streets by night. That’s how you grew to know a city -- you learned every inch of it, like you would a lover.

He passed a fountain and underneath the burbling and splashing of the water, he heard a voice murmur --

“So happy…”

Someone was curled up on a nearby bench, their knees tucked against their chest.

“Happy…” the figure repeated and proceeded to roll over into empty space. Ned leaped forward and caught them nearly in mid-air and heaved them back onto the bench.

“You okay?” he asked. The kid took a moment to think it over and then nodded.

“Yeah. I’m good.” His words were slurred.

“You know, you probably shouldn’t drink if you can’t hold it.”

“‘M not drunk.”

“… or smoke whatever it is you’ve been smoking.” Ned hesitated. “Do you… want some water? Or, I dunno, a coffee?”

The kid muttered something which Ned realized was Arabic for _thank you_. He sat down beside him.

“Was that a yes?” He didn’t reply, so Ned reached over and shook him. A moment later, he muzzily raised his head and blinked at Ned.

“You know what this world needs?” he slurred, eyes only half-open. “A return to the manners of yesterday… calm discussion and… deci -- devi -- decisive action. Yeah.”

Ned stared down at the boy lolling beside him, practically leaning on his shoulder. 

“Well sweetheart, that’s just great,” he said, “but I think it’s time you were getting home --” He stopped short.

The traffic lights had illuminated the kid’s face and, well... _Jesus._ Ned was suddenly hit with a sense of responsibility. If he left the kid out here… especially looking the way he did… that wouldn’t end well. At all.

“Do you,” he asked, trying not to make it sound like a proposition, “have somewhere to go?”

The kid didn’t reply and Ned shook him by the shoulder.

“Hey, I asked you if you had somewhere to go.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Biting back a curse, Ned looked up to see the lights of a cab come sailing by. Inspiration struck and he quickly hailed it. And then he was pulling the kid to his feet and half-dragging, half-carrying him to the car.

“Take him wherever he wants to go,” he told the cabbie.

“Oh wow, is this a _cab?_ ” came the kid’s voice from the backseat.  Ned handed over several euros with a twinge of regret. Jack would say it was his own damn fault for pitying the strays. 

“Hey, where do you live?” he asked the kid. He and the cabbie heard a dreamy retort of _the Tower of London._

“I’m not driving to London,” the cabbie said. “Not for what you just paid me.”

Ned sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. He had not drunk enough for this.

“Fine,” he said and opened the door to the back seat. The kid was starting to doze off, it seemed. “Fine. We’ll go to my place.”

 

Luckily for him, Mistress Quickly’s establishment was extremely well-acquainted with tenants who came and went at ungodly hours. Moreover, she was by now accustomed to Ned’s habit of bringing men back to his apartment, so this wouldn’t attract too much attention.

“Is this the elevator?” asked the kid when Ned unlocked his door and led him inside.

“-- no.”

Ned surveyed his apartment and then turned back to the kid. “Okay. You’re sleeping on the couch, _not_ on the --” The kid plopped down on the bed, looking around the room with bleary interest. “Couch,” he repeated, taking him by the shoulder and steering him there. “See?” It didn’t seem to make any difference to him. Ned turned away. “I’ve got some stuff you can sleep in,” he added. _I must be mad,_ he added privately.

“A t-shirt?” the kid exclaimed.

“Er -- yeah. Knock yourself out.” Ned handed them to him.

“Would you help me undress?” 

“I’m sorry, what?”

They stared at each other. The kid’s pupils were blown.

“Would you help me undress?” he repeated. 

“That’s what I thought you said.”

The kid waited expectantly and Ned sucked in a breath. He looked over eighteen, so that was at least something. _Kid_ probably wasn’t the right word. Still, this was very much taking advantage. Worse and worse, the traffic lights and the darkness had not lied -- he was stunning.

Eventually, he made do with the first three buttons on his shirt.

“You can take it from here,” he mumbled.

“It’s weird,” the kid mused, continuing to undo his buttons. “I’ve never been alone with a strange man before. Even with my clothes on.” He shrugged out of the oxford completely. “With my clothes _off_ , it’s _very_  weird.”

After that, Ned bid a hasty retreat to the bathroom to change and to escape anymore conversation. When he returned to the bedroom, the kid was passed out on, Ned was relieved to see, the couch.

He fell back onto the bed. The kid didn’t stir, just muttered something that sounded like _charmed._

“Screwball,” Ned muttered, and reached over to turn out the light.

 

The first thing Ned saw when he woke was his digital clock, which is a terrible way to start the day. Eight-forty-six. Hm. That was nice. He rolled over, eyes already closing. Then froze. 

Eight-forty-six. 

He sat bolt upright.

“Shit, the prince’s interview!”

Someone else in the room groaned as Ned stumbled out of bed and nearly tripped over the sofa. He stopped short for a second, blinking stupidly. There was a pair of legs there. For one wild moment he thought some intruder had broken in for a place to crash -- then he remembered last night. The kid. 

He was still asleep, the pillow pulled resolutely over his head. He’d probably have a splitting hangover when he got up. Ned dressed quickly and then, out of sympathy, left a note on the table beside the sofa before heading out.

_I didn’t kidnap you. Take_ _one_ _aspirin. Please leave before I get back. This is not going to become a regular thing._

He left a pill and a glass of water beside the note and then left.

 

Rome was already thoroughly awake and took very little notice of the hastily-dressed figure trying to tie his tie while running down the street and swearing copiously in English. He was mildly hungover and would have died for a cup of coffee, but there wasn’t time for that. He did _not_ , as his employer so often reminded him, need another strike. _Look, Ed, we both know you’re wasted on journalism, but for chrissakes couldn’t you put some effort in…_

He wasn’t looking where he was going and so it was only a matter of time before he careened headlong into a passing newspaper salesman. Papers flew like white birds over the road. 

“Sorrysorrysorrysorry...”

He wouldn’t have stopped, except the headline caught his eye: _Prince Of Wales In Bed With Influenza - Tour Delayed._

“Sorry, can I have one of these?” he asked. The salesman rolled his eyes but took his money regardless. Ned left him to gather the rest of the papers, preferring to scan the article. It seemed he’d had a stroke of luck. Prince Henry, they said, was laid up with influenza and so had cancelled all public appearances for the day and would be staying in Rome indefinitely.

A major stroke of luck. If Ned were religious, he’d have gotten on his knees and given thanks. As it was, he continued to study the article. They’d included a photograph of the prince from his time in Paris. Good-looking guy. Big eyes, serene smile, white teeth… Hang on. 

Ned took a closer look. 

It wasn’t good quality paper and the ink had smudged a little, but there was little mistaking it. 

Just as quickly as he’d come, Ned turned and ran back for his flat. 

 

The kid was still there, stretched out asleep on the sofa like before. The pillow had slipped onto the floor, exposing his face. Slowly, carefully so as not to wake him, Ned held the newspaper up to his face.

They were identical. 

God only knew how the Prince of Wales had somehow managed to end up in his apartment.

Ned lowered the photograph and took a shaky breath, then let it out just as shakily. An idea was starting to form in his mind. He left the flat, tossed the newspaper into the garbage can out in the hall, and sat down on the stairs to make a call.

“Jack? Dammit -- come on, pick up the damn -- Jack, hi!” 

_“Poins, why aren’t you at the office?”_

“I slept in. Now look -- I have this idea for a story. I think it could be pretty huge, but you have _got_ to keep it a secret.” Ned swallowed. He wasn’t at all sure about the wisdom of entrusting Jack with this. Neither was Jack.

_“And you’re telling_ me _?”_

“I know, hard to believe, isn’t it? But look,” said Ned, “you’re the best photographer we’ve got and to make this work, I’m going to need photos and plenty of them.”

_“What’ve you got in mind?”_

“Okay,” said Ned. “You know how we’ve got that interview with the prince at like eight-thirty?” 

_“Yeah. It got cancelled. He’s sick.”_

“What if I told you that I can get the mother superior of all royal interviews?” Ned asked.

_“Uh, that question is pretty much moot since, you know, he’s got bloody_ influenza.”

“Bet you half a dollar?”

Silence. Jack sighed over the phone.

_“What scheme do you have this time?”_

“How much do you think an interview with the prince would be worth?” 

_“I dunno. What were you thinking about asking him -- assuming, of course, that you can even get this interview,”_ Jack added a little snidely. “ _I mean, if you can work around to asking him about fox hunting, that’d be a pull, certainly.”_

“Oh, I’m not just talking about fox hunting,” said Ned, warming to his theme. “I’m talking the prince’s views on _everything._ I mean, think about it. What’s the life like? What does a prince think about on a day to day basis? Hopes, dreams, his philosophy on life, hell, what his favorite color is. _Everything._ ”

_“Edward Poins, you are out of your goddamned mind.”_

“Oh, am I,” said Ned grimly. “Look, just meet me at my apartment ASAP, okay?”

_“Ned, I do have a job to do --”_

“Just be there.”

He hung up and looked around, hoping that nobody else had overheard their conversation. Luckily, the tenants of Mistress Quickly’s establishment tended to rise around eleven, so he was probably safe. And now… He stood up and went back into his apartment. The kid -- the prince? -- the kid was still asleep. 

And all there was left to do was wait for him to wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr as princehalsdaddyissues, if you're curious!


End file.
